A Feminine Hygiene Product on Wheels

How cars are named has always been a curiosity. Studebaker had a car in the 1930s called the Dictator. Before that, they had the Rockne – yes, named for Knute Rockne of Ronald Reagan movie fame. You know that old Gipper line he always quoted.

Naming cars for people is not strange. That is how we ended up with Nash, Ford, Lincoln, Oldsmobile (Ransom E. Olds, who also gave us R-E-O). That is how we ended up with Hudson. Hudson was not named for the river or valley; it was named after Joseph L. Hudson, a Detroit department store owner, whose store was named, you guessed it, Hudson’s Department Store.

Car naming was obviously very egotistical in the early days.

Just as we had “look at my company” cars, we also had cars with strange names. There was the Terraplane – on the water you are hydroplaning, in the air you are airoplaning, on the ground, you are terraplaning! Seen a Terraplane dealer lately (for those that don’t know, this was a Hudson brand)?

We have had Presidents, Ambassadors, Statesmans, and Diplomats, but we never had a car called Middle Manager or Frustrated Pencil Pusher. Now, that would sell.

There have been Thunderbirds, Firebirds, and Bantams (a type of chicken), but we never got to drive a Buzzard, a car that would circle and circle until just the right spot was available.

Places make nice names like Monterey, Dakota, Riviera and Montana, but thankfully, no one tried to sell us a convertible Newark or Newport News Station Wagon.

There have been Rockets, Satellites, and Apollos, but did you ever see a four-door hardtop Skylab? I mean one that wasn’t falling toward your house in a million fiery pieces.

Also, there have been the controversial names like Cherokee, Comanche and Chief. Imagine a personal luxury car called a Jewess. It will only take you to restaurants and department stores and never pull into a grocery store parking lot.

Then, there are the names that confuse me.

I have always disliked the name Prius. To me, it sounds like a vaginal infection. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Greenberg, but you seem to have Prius. Does your husband frequently seek the services of prostitutes?”

Toyota also has the Yaris, which is a sleeping disease you contract from fleas that have jumped off a walrus. Corolla means shitty, dirty appliance in Japanese, which is why their owners rarely clean them. The only Toyota name I cannot joke about is Camry because I have an old friend named Cammie, and besides, I cannot think of a Camry joke.

The Nissan Maxima is a feminine hygiene product. How can a straight man drive one of these, and if he does, how can he refuse to pick up tampons for his wife?

Nissan used to be Datsun, and my father always told the joke that a Jewish guy named the company. His boss said, “I need a name by tomorrow,” and the Jewish guy answered, “Dat soon?”

Nissan has the Altima, which is only driven by Alta Cockers – literally; the Sentra, which is enriched with essential vitamins and minerals; and the Versa, which can be parked on the top or bottom tier of a garage … think about it.

Mazda is smart. They only use numbers. However, the English translation of Miata is flaming hot mess of a drag queen. I don’t think since the Dodge Custom Royal La Femme has a car been more associated with women and effeminate men than the Mazda Miata. I wonder if it also has a lipstick holder.

Now Dodge has used a few strange names, and many either medicinal, Lancer for removing moles, or phallic, Dart, and don't forget bisexual phallic, Dart Swinger.

Then, there was the Dodge Coronet, a favorite car among nuns because nothing says marketing strategy more than selling your car to monasteries. Realizing their cars were named for penises, medical instruments and the Flying Nun’s hat, they have recently gone all testosterony with Avenger, Caliber, Challenger and Charger. It’s as if you have to wear spandex and a cape to drive one of their cars.

Chrysler always put on airs with New Yorker, Newport, and Windsor, but Plymouth always suffered from disassociative personality disorder with the Cranbrook, a side-dish served during the holidays, Fury, what happens to your partner when you stain a pillow sham, and Valiant, a prince with a page-boy haircut and lots of male friends.

Ford now has Focus, Fiesta and Escape, so are you going to concentrate, party or just leave? Make up your minds guys.

The best names used to be at Cadillac with DeVille or is it Deville or is it De Ville, Seville and Calais. Well, they did have Fleetwood, and brand of enema. But now, it is all DTS and CTS and LL Cool J and FU2. Where is the class in all that?

Kia disturbs me most. They gave us Sorento, an Italian TV dinner, and the Cadenza, a type of mid-century modern desk. Who drives a desk? Can you imagine asking the valet for your Cadenza?

My favorite is the Kia Sportage, which is when two athletes rub their genitalia together. “After the game, Bruce and I sportaged until we were spent. Then we took a shower and sportaged some more.” No wonder these are so popular.

Did you know the Edsel was almost named Utopian Turtletop? That is an uncircumcised penis that appears perfect in every way, until you have to live in it.

If you drive a feminine hygiene product or a phallic symbol, follow me, join me or just buy my books. www.miltonstern.com

The Summer of the Red Plastic Cup

Social media and I have a strange relationship. While I like to post crap that is meant to get a laugh, I rarely if ever post that I just had dinner with Queen Elizabeth and now we are going to the crafts fair in search of macramé flower pot holders.

Actually, I would post something like that.

However, the summer invites all kinds of “look at me; I am having more fun with more people than you” posts.

For those of you reading this who don’t live in the DC Metropolitan area, first, congratulations. You don’t have to get up at 4:30 am to commute ten miles to work for an 8:00 am arrival. Second, we have something a little more than hundred miles away called Rehoboth Beach. I would like to describe Rehoboth Beach in the summer, but in the sixteen years that I have lived in this area, I have never, and I mean never, been invited to go to Rehoboth Beach in season. I have been there in September for our car club invitational, but being on the board, I didn’t get to experience whatever the hell the excitement is all about. However, if I did, I am sorely disappointed. I have been there in November and April, too. What fun!

I once dated a guy, we will call Lester, not because we are protecting him, but that was his real name. We met in June, and every weekend he went to “the beach,” which is code for going to Rehoboth. Not once, did he ask me to go. He did finally ask me to go the following March. I dumped him the next month.

But, I am not bitter.

Maybe not getting invited is my fault because I never asked for an invitation. I am just one of those people who doesn’t go where he isn’t invited. I know people who ask to stay at other people’s homes when they are on vacation, taking advantage of generous people. When I took my cross-country trip, I only stayed with Danny and Michael, and that was because they insisted. It never occurred to me to ask people to stay in their homes. I have an acquaintance who declared years ago that he would entertain no more houseguests. He said he no longer had the room, nor did he want the inconvenience of having people in his space. Do you know what he does when he travels? He calls everyone he knows living at his destination and asks if he can stay with them. And, they let him. I have invited all my friends from around the country to stay with me, with one exception. You guessed it.

My friends, Charles and Ken invite me to stay with them all the time, so I know my company can’t be all that bad!

Once, many years ago when I lived in Florida, a friend was having a birthday, complete with limo and bar hopping. I found out about it, and I sort of made a stink since I was the only one in the group left out – the reasons being I didn’t drink to excess and I was better looking than everyone else (I am assuming the latter). Well, they reluctantly invited me but not without a bunch of rules as to how I was to behave and not to kvetch nor whine. Not kvetch nor whine? Had we met? I decided to drive myself and meet them at a club in Miami. Well, I was having a perfectly lovely time, when they decided they were bored, so all of them left, except my friend Stan. Not two minutes went by when who would walk by us and say hello, but Madonna! And, I don’t mean the Virgin Mother. I am talking about THE Modonna. And, they called me the whiner and kvetch.

I don’t get upset that I have not been invited to “the Beach” in season because from what I have gathered, everyone who goes there every weekend is a snobby, pretentious, A-list wannabe, who cannot consume a beverage unless it is in a red plastic cup and someone is pointing a camera at him, while he is wearing a bathing suit that is not flattering nor properly fitted and just shows how time and vodka can take a toll on a bitter queen's face and physique. If I drank as much as some of these old hags, I would never let someone point a camera at me when I wasn’t wearing a veil.

Has anyone told them that just because the bathing suit made the model in the Undergear catalogue look hot, that doesn’t mean it is going to work on you?

But, I am not bitter.

Speaking of cameras, I live by the Lucille Ball sixth season of Here’s Lucy rule: only in flattering light with a filter and no close-ups. I have one other rule. I will never have my picture taken while holding a red plastic cup. Uccchhhh.

These “look at my pitiful attention-seeking life” photos are all over Facebook every weekend in the summer. They are usually accompanied by a post that says, “Out at the Blue Moon with my dear friend, Tyler. Having a blast!” Dear friend? Really? Before you invited Tyler to stay at your fabulous beach house that weekend, he was reading you up, down, right and left – behind your back of course. What some whores will do for a weekend at the beach. Tyler’s tongue must be bleeding from all that biting.

But, I am not bitter.

The other summer activities that makes their way onto Facebook are the cookouts and pool parties. Again, I don’t know how these are because – you guessed it – I am never invited. There all of them are, many of whom I have invited to my home over the years for dinner parties, cocktail parties and the like, posing for the camera, holding those godforsaken red fucking plastic cups. All smiling as if they are the best of friends. I just want to vomit.

There is one clue as to why all of them are at the same party. They look alike. You don’t believe me? Look again. DC gays only hang around guys who look like themselves. Twinks with twinks, gym bunnies with gym bunnies, club kids with club kids. Same haircuts, same physiques, same clothes. And, not a damn one of them is aging well. Vodka and red plastic will do that to you.

A good friend of mine and I have had this discussion many times about how hard it is to fit in or be a part of a group of friends in this area. The jobs are here, but that is about it. He escapes westward every weekend rather than beachward. After much thought and consideration, I am thinking of doing the same thing because my closest friends don’t live here anymore. At least the guys in the boonies are not snobby, A-list, pretentious, wrinkled, tired, old queens with nothing better to do than pose drunk in inappropriate attire, while holding a red plastic cup.

But, I am not bitter.

If you are drinking out of a red plastic cup, follow me, join me or buy my damn books! www.miltonstern.com.